the clear, ringing order, "GO AHEAD!"

Now a burst of feathery steam plumed skyward,
and then the slow "chuggity-chug" of our drum cogs
rose in the air. The stern line straightened until it
was as rigid as a bar of iron, sagged for an instant
under the slump of the staggering sloop, straightened
again, and remained rigid. The sloop, held by the
stern line, crept slowly back to safety.

Captain Joe looked over his shoulder, noted the
widening distance, and leaped back to the inshore
rocks.

Late that afternoon, when the tug, with Captain
Joe and me on board, reached the tug's moorings
in New London harbor, the dock was crowded with
anxious faces,--Abram Marrows and his wife among
them. It had been an anxious day along the shore
road. The squall, which had blown for half an hour
and had then slunk away toward Little Gull, grumbling
as it went, had sent everything that could seek
shelter bowling into New London Harbor under close
reefs. It had also started Marrows and his wife on
a run to the dock, where they had stood for hours
straining their eyes seaward, each incoming vessel,
as she swooped past the dock into the inner basin,
adding to their anxiety.

"Wouldn't give a keg o' sp'ilt fish for her. Ain't